


Ashes

by Prop_Logic



Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Ableism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Disability, Future Fic, Injury Recovery, Light BDSM, M/M, Permanent Injury, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29579934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prop_Logic/pseuds/Prop_Logic
Summary: Rugby is a brilliant sport, with beautiful highs and terrible lows. Having led England to World Cup victory a matter of months ago, with more than a hundred caps under his belt, Owen Farrell can easily attest to that. It is a dangerous sport, too, and everyone who plays accepts the risks.This just wasn't something he ever imagined would happen tohim.
Relationships: James Haskell/Owen Farrell
Comments: 13
Kudos: 8





	1. Broken Pieces on the Floor

**Author's Note:**

> This fic starts in March of 2024, during England's last game of the Six Nations. England won the 2023 World Cup, with Owen Farrell as captain (who is incidentally on ~120 caps, my fairly relaxed projection for if he has no injuries, no bans, and - obviously - plays for England up to this point). Owen and James Haskell have been married for a fair few years, but it remains a fairly closely kept secret, largely because of Owen's desire for privacy.
> 
> The fic will be updated sporadically, and I'll update tags - characters, relationships, etc. - with new chapters. The first chapter will cover internalised ableism and the negative impact that disability can have, but the focus is intended to be more on the loss of one's livelihood/identity/etc., and the mental health struggles that come with adapting to a new way of life and learning to see things from a different perspective. As the fic progresses, the focus will shift with that learning, and at no point is it my intention to portray disability as an outright negative thing. It can be difficult, yes - it isn't necessarily just being 'differently abled', and I can attest to that - but that doesn't make life with a disability worth any less.
> 
> That said, I have no experience with paraplegia, so if I miss the mark, please let me know. There will be some touchy points as well, so take care. In the first chapter, that centres around internal/mental health issues, with some self-harm in the middle, and I'll flag up anything that arises in later chapters. It'll generally deal with coming out and homophobia a bit, I might explore some queer themes a bit more deeply but no promises, and there's some SSC BDSM which is pretty mild in the first chapter but may go further later on - again, who knows?
> 
> And the title is from Celine Dion's Ashes.

The Twickenham sun gleams on dew-dampened grass in the few patches of the pitch not thoroughly trampled by mud and the boots of many a rugby player. Around the stadium, the crowd bays, delighted by the performance of their home team as England sweeps on in majestic form from their autumn triumph. Owen Farrell, England Captain, ignores it all in favour of martialling his team as they repel wave after wave of attack from their opponents, closer to their own line than feels comfortable.

“ _Hit_ , _hit_!” he yells at the forwards rushing up to meet the latest attackers further down the line.

Tom Curry dives over, hands fastening around the ball to tug it up and free, but can’t quite keep his grip; it goes bobbling along the ground to be scooped up by Ben Spencer, and Owen drops in preparation, knowing that they need to clear their lines as quickly as possible. Ben fires it back to him, and he stoops to snatch the low pass, straightening and setting to kick.

The ball meets his boot comfortably, the strike clean, and he has a second to be satisfied with the path the ball makes towards the touchline before something slams into his midriff and blasts him backwards while he is still off-balance from the kick itself. For a moment, he reels, then the ground comes rushing up beneath him, and a scream rips itself from his throat with the rest of his breath at the sudden and unexpected agony in his back on that immediate, brutal impact.

At once, his tackler pushes off the floor, and Owen registers distantly that he should do the same – that he should get up, should join his teammates – but something tells him not to move. Whatever the fire spreading up his back is, he isn’t willing to risk making it worse by pushing himself into getting up; he has walked the line, when younger, between responsible dedication and reckless abandonment, but he has learnt his lesson by now.

_Fuck_ , but his back is blazing with pain and it doesn’t feel good at all, even as he struggles to regain his breath from the force of the hit alone and attempts to find his bearings; he doesn’t know if he _could_ stand if he tried. A whistle blast rings in his ears, battering at his skull while he gulps in air and digs his fingers into the ground, trying to anchor himself amidst the agony.

The shadow that falls across his vision, blocking out the glare of the sun, is a blessed relief.

“Owen, talk to me, mate,” comes the simple command, cutting through the clamour of voices some metres away. “What’s the problem?”

“My back,” Owen grits out at once, lifting his head without daring to raise even his shoulders from the ground. “Fucking –”

His eyes fall on the hand that rests on his leg, and something about it strikes him as odd, though he can’t, for a moment, work out what. There’s some sort of dissonance in the sight, he thinks, and he doesn’t like that he was surprised to see it there.

“I can’t feel your hand,” he blurts out, panic rising with nausea as he stares at the appendage in question – and beyond to his own legs. “I – I can’t –”

Where is the sensation of the grass beneath his legs? Where is the ache from the game’s ferocity, the lactic acid in his calves and thighs? Why, no matter how hard he wills his foot to twitch, is it just lying limp at an angle that surely should feel uncomfortable at the least?

“What do you mean?” the medic prompts him, a furrow forming in the man’s face. “My left hand?”

He shifts the one in question – the one on Owen’s leg – and Owen doesn’t feel any of it. Shakily, he nods, unable to tear his eyes away from it as he struggles to breathe, to fight back the fear. Isn’t he meant to be feeling a bit more denial in a situation like this? Isn’t it meant to take longer for the brutal truth of the matter to sink in?

“I – I can’t feel my legs,” he rasps, desperate terror clogging his throat. “I can’t – Why can’t I –?”

He knows why not. His back is in agony and his legs are numb, and he can only wish that he didn’t know what this is, what this means.

“Alright, Owen, just lie back, now – try not to move.”

The sudden urgency in the tone doesn’t make him feel any better, but he lies back all the same, dropping an arm over his eyes to hide from the sun and disguise the tears stinging behind his eyelids.

“We have a suspected spinal cord injury,” he hears the medic announce, even as hands settle on his head to hold it still. “We’ll need to drive the player off, and get the ambulance ready to take him.”

If Owen could, he’d cover his ears to block out those words.

“Owen?” a new voice prompts him. “How’re you feeling? How’s the pain?”

Owen wants to dismiss it, to tell them all that he is fine and he can handle it, but for once his distress wins out.

“Bad,” he croaks, tears blurring the line between his forearm and what little of the sky peaks through. “Really fucking bad.”

“Can you tell me where it is?”

“L – Lower back,” he tells the woman speaking to him, blinking fiercely as he does so; he doesn’t want to cry here.

“Thank you – you’re going to be alright, Owen.”

_Fuck_ , does Owen wish he could believe her.

“Alright, Faz?”

Owen drops the arm over his eyes to squint up at Tom, trying and failing to offer a smile to reassure the younger man as Tom looks him over in obvious concern. At least this provides a distraction from the whirlwind around him as everyone tries to work out how best to move him, how long until the stretcher will be here, if they need a collar…

“Nice turnover, mate,” he offers, the deflection none-too-subtle. “Tell the lads to up the fucking work-rate.”

Tom nods and leans down to pat him with unusual gentleness on the shoulder, then wanders off. More of his teammates make their way over – and opposition players, too – all crouching to offer him their best, and they are all starting to blur together.

“You doing alright, mate?” one player mutters, and Owen guesses that this must be the man who tackled him by the guilt in his eyes; he didn’t see who it was at the time. “I’m really sorry for…”

“All good,” Owen assures him at once. “It was a good hit – just landed wrong or something.”

Lips pressing tightly together, the other man nods and, like near enough everyone before him, pats Owen lightly on the shoulder before standing and wandering away. With no one else looking like they want to talk, Owen drops his arm back over his eyes and focuses on riding out the agony in his back and _not crying_. The little chats, at least, were a distraction from the pain and fear, but now he has nothing to stop it from overwhelming him as the conversations of others bounce back and forth above his head.

Fuck, but he has to concentrate to so much as breathe through it all, forcing every inhale and exhale and digging his nails into his palm in the hopes that it might distract him from the nauseating sensations radiating up his back. (It doesn’t.)

The next thing to pull him briefly from the haze is the hand that settles lightly against his wrist, apparently checking his pulse, before moving to his palm instead, another set of fingers finding his other hand as well to pull it away from his eyes.

“Can you squeeze my hands, Owen?”

For a moment, Owen experiences a horrible, sickening panic that perhaps he won’t be able to, but his fingers shift when he wills them, and he already knows that he has function of his arms – he just got worried for a second there, but he’s fine. He’s fine.

“Can you tell me which fingers I’m touching?”

Owen stares up at the sky and _breathes_.

“Index,” he replies, and drops his arm back over his eyes as soon as it is released.

For perhaps a minute, no one addresses him. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his arm into them and tries to take steady breaths without shifting at all, which seems to be a new level of difficult. The hands on his head, still holding it still, are starting to feel a little claustrophobic.

“Owen, can you push your left foot down against my hand?”

Owen tries – he really does.

“Owen, can you hear me?” the same voice prompts.

“Yes,” he croaks, miserable, then adds before the same request can come again, “I’m – I’m trying.”

Clearly, it isn’t working. He already knew that, but having the knowledge reconfirmed still _hurts_.

“Alright. Can you tell me which foot I’m touching?”

“No, I can’t feel your fucking finger!” Owen snaps, then regrets it at once; pain and desperate, suffocating fear are no excuses for rudeness. “…Sorry.”

Perhaps he should be glad that he can still move his arms to hide the welling tears from the world. _No_ , that’s a bad joke to make, even in his own head, and it doesn’t make anything better, because it only reminds him that _he can’t move his legs_ , and his back seems to be sending off signal after signal that something is horrifically wrong to batter at his brain.

“Owen, I’m going to move your arm,” someone tells him, then his arm is settled over his abdomen, the other folded over it. “I need you to leave it there from now on. We’re going to get you to hospital, alright? You’ve provided numbers for anyone we need to contact, haven’t you?”

Owen’s ‘yes’ is muffled by his continued effort to hold in tears, but it must be enough, because he is left to dwell on the fact that he is to be shipped off to hospital in the back of an ambulance and that they’ll be calling his loved ones for him, because the situation is _that bad_ – and he knew that, but it’s one thing to acknowledge it in his own head and quite another to see all the pieces slotting into place.

He wants James. He wants his parents. He suddenly feels very alone, here, even surrounded by a looming flurry of medical staff and support, under the eyes of tens of thousands of fans.

He doesn’t want to cry in front of everyone. He wants his legs to _move_ when he wills them to.

Somewhere in the midst of them fixing a collar around his neck and moving him onto a board of some sort, he stops paying attention to everything around him; he thinks that they gave him some kind of pain medication somewhere along the way, because the fire in his lower back is distant and dull, and it feels so easy to simply float off. Keeping track of everything for as long as he could has already left him exhausted, and tuning out of the entire situation is so much better than thinking about anything.

The last thing he remembers is the roar of the Twickenham crowd as they remove him from the pitch; applause has never seemed so bittersweet.

Awareness returns in a flurry of activity that Owen observes through a distant haze, unable to fully connect with the blur of lights and fast-paced discussions above him. Clarity comes to him in snatches of a large white ring that they slide him into, with the sudden and painful recollection of what happened on the field and the fact that _he can’t move or feel his legs_ , and of the voices that streak past him as they move him from one place to another, the words rarely making sense to him but occasionally penetrating the buzz in his skull to echo around his brain.

He doesn’t know what an ‘incomplete ess-see-eye’ is, but it doesn’t sound good.

The next moment that comes to him is one of stillness, and he waits for some time for that to slide away like everything else has, but instead more sensations start to register slowly: the voices beyond the room he finds himself in, the tick of a clock, the whiteness of the lights fixed into the ceiling above him. He is not alone in the room, he thinks.

He vaguely remembers someone speaking to him some time ago – running through those same tests of sensory and motor function as they did on the pitch. His answers might have been better than they were the first time or they might have been the same – he doesn’t think they _can_ get worse – but he drifted away again too quickly to recall them now.

_Did the team win?_ They must have done, surely; they were several scores ahead and entering the last ten minutes when the injury happened. They’d better have.

Saracens were playing today, too. If he asked, would anyone check the results and tell him? Maybe when – if – someone comes to visit him, he can ask them. He isn’t sure he wants to get an answer, though, because knowing would mean that he’d have to stop wondering, and that would mean not having anything to distract him from the reality that he wouldn’t need to ask anyone if he weren’t in hospital, if he could still move his legs. Perhaps he should try not to think about that.

Too late.

After the disorientating swirl of however much time has passed since the accident on the pitch, it is strange to have this sense of detached clarity. Whatever his exact injury is, he knows that it is bad. He can still move his arms, but his legs aren’t responding to him at all, and he doesn’t know if he is imagining the faint sensation that he might be feeling; he also doesn’t know if the fact that his back isn’t hurting too much anymore is good or not.

How much function he can recover will remain to be seen, and he is aware enough of spinal injuries to know that the doctors won’t have much more idea on that front than he does. There will be some things they can tell him with reasonable certainty, of course, but there will undoubtedly be a frustrating amount of unknowns. Whatever the case, the chances of getting back to rugby are likely slim. He will do everything he can to get there, he knows that much already, but, even if he makes a full functional recovery, that won’t account for the time out of the game itself.

He didn’t ever imagine that he might one day have to stop playing rugby. Even now, the possibility seems hard to fathom; he has seen other players make a full recovery from paralysis, so why shouldn’t he? What’s even to say that there really is something terrible going on? For all he knows, he only has some kind of spinal concussion and all his certainty over it being awful will turn out to be completely misguided. Maybe, in a few days, he’ll be up and about as normal.

When Owen finally gets to speak to a doctor, those hopes are quickly dashed. She runs the tests again, and he still can’t feel anything in his feet, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it? When she tests his sensation further up his leg, he can feel the pressure against his upper thigh, and that surely has to be a sign of something positive.

Unfortunately, what she has to say tells a far more damning story.

He has fractured his spine in the lumbar region. His spine is stable, so no further damage should occur, but that hardly sounds pressing in the face of the problems she can already list out. He may regain some level of bladder and bowel control, may one day have full sensation in his legs again, may even regain function in his upper legs, but the chance of him ever walking again is slim to none – never mind without some kind of aid.

A return to rugby is almost certainly out of the question.

“Shit,” he says, because he thinks he might cry if he doesn’t offset it by speaking, but it doesn’t work anyway; his lips twist uncontrollably downwards, his voice cracks, and suddenly it is all he can do to close his eyes on the tears that burn them.

Despite the pain of it, focusing on the rugby seems easier than thinking about the other things. Rugby, at least, he is used to considering clinically; there is no way to escape painful truths in elite sport, and this is just another to deal with. He can find ways to keep himself involved in the game; he has been considering coaching for a few years, now, has enjoyed the opportunities that he has had in the past, and he can surely manage that without being able to walk. In terms of exercise, he might have to turn to workouts that focus more on his core and upper body, and kicking is… _gone_ , but he will still be able to get that sense of satisfaction and keep himself in good health generally, even if…

Even if his achievements and goals will be a lot lower than they once would have been, he can cope.

It’s definitely better thinking about this than about the other things the doctor said.

James arrives soon after that, and then Owen _does_ have to address the rest of it, because he can’t just gloss over half the situation when explaining it all to his husband. He lists out what the doctor told him in monotone, because if he lets a hint of emotion slip through then the rest will come pouring out through that crack. Still, he can’t look at James as he explains that he may not retain full sexual function.

“Sorry,” he hears himself add, an impulse that he can’t stop, and regrets it even before the deep furrow in James’s brow darkens further.

“Owen, listen to me,” his husband begins, firm and serious as he reaches out to take Owen’s hand. “That is probably the _furthest_ thing from my mind right now. I’m here to make sure that you’re alright, and to do everything I can to help you, okay? You certainly don’t need to be apologising for anything.”

Silent, Owen nods and wishes that he had James’s strength at the moment. James might say that he doesn’t mind, and maybe he doesn’t, but the possibility that Owen might never be sexually intimate with James in the way he is used to seems terrifying to him – another thing to add on the pile of issues that he faces for an indefinite length of time, with an indefinite degree of severity and an indefinite level of final recovery.

Perhaps the lack of clarity is the reason why it seems so difficult to recognise that this is _reality_ now – that it isn’t a temporary problem, that it isn’t some sort of strange dream, that it is a permanent injury with lasting effects that he will have to put months and even years of effort into rehabilitation for, to get the best outcome for the rest of his life. Rehabilitation might as well be his new rugby.

_Rehabilitation might as well be his new rugby._

He is no longer on the verge of tears; instead, he feels numb and cold. This morning, he was gearing up to lead the team into the last match of the tournament, their title already claimed. This morning, he was as fit and fresh as he ever is, anticipating the chance to get stuck in and lead the team yet again, kicking well and feeling the spring in his step, largely at peace with the fact that it could well be his last match as captain. Now, he is lying in a hospital bed, and that was his last game as anything, for anyone. Now, he can’t move his legs, can’t feel his feet.

Beyond anything else at the moment, he is utterly, hopelessly lost.

“Did we win?” he asks finally, when he remembers not only that he doesn’t already know the answer, but also that he actually cares.

James frowns.

“I… think so? I mean, you were – what? Three scores ahead when…?”

“I know _that_ ,” Owen mutters, ignoring the way James trails off instead of voicing aloud what happened.

“Well, I was more worried about you after that,” James admits freely, turning to his phone. “Hang on, I’ll check.”

Pressing his lips together, Owen turns his gaze to the ceiling.

“And the Sarries game?” he requests, then considers suggesting that James find him the results of every single match today and reports to go alongside, just to keep his mind off the situation.

It’s a tempting idea, but he doesn’t bother trying it. He doubts it would work, and it would only be putting off the inevitable, anyway.

_“Mate, I couldn’t really see anything, but it sounded pretty fucking horrible,” Ellis mutters, while James listens vaguely to the conversation; no one is about to pressure him to join in on this. “It’s one of those things – when you hear that scream, you know? And Faz is one of those boys who just doesn’t make those sounds, so hearing that from him was… It was fucking chilling, honestly.”_

_Slowly, James nods. He wasn’t at the stadium – wasn’t there when it happened – but seeing it on TV was horrific enough. He has seen Owen injured in the past, just as Owen has watched him go down many a time over their respective careers, but Ellis is right; not once has he heard Owen scream, and to see him not even trying to sit up, to watch the paramedics crowding around him…_

_James never wants to experience that again. A close second in the list of terrifying experiences that he would give anything not to repeat would be the wait, pacing in the hall with his coat slung over his arm and his shoes already on, for a phone call to tell him where they had taken his husband._

_It wasn’t much better getting to see Owen, finally, and having to watch the terror, the confusion, the denial, the resignation all play out on Owen’s face, but at least James could help, then. At least he didn’t have to feel useless._

_Really, James should have sat the show out for the week. He was offered the chance, but he thought he needed to keep himself occupied, so he turned it down. Now, he is starting to realise that trying to stay busy isn’t going to stop his thoughts from wandering back to Owen, stuck in a hospital bed as doctors try to work out what they can do to give him the best prognosis for recovery – the best chance of regaining sensation below his waist, of maybe one day walking again – before they ship him off to rehab. No, it just makes James shit at whatever he is trying to occupy himself with._

_“I suppose it could be a while before we hear what the problem is,” Alex sighs, and it stays unspoken that James knows. “Owen has our best wishes, whatever the case.”_

_It is Owen’s choice when that sort of information gets shared, and James will keep it to himself up until that point. Like everything he finds himself doing these past two days, it doesn’t feel like enough to satisfy his need to be there for Owen. Likely, nothing will, short of going back in time and changing what just happened._

Owen gets the feeling that he is probably meant to be _grateful_ for how smooth and non-problematic his initial recovery is; the doctors seem to be delighted with the lack of setbacks and complications, and even he has to admit that it’s nice to eventually have a degree of sensation down to his mid-thigh in parts of his legs, however limited it might be. Being pleased with where he is at right now, however, means acknowledging where the situation could be – and where it could still end up. It also means accepting defeat and giving in to the reality that this is his life now, that he is no longer a professional rugby player, but rather a paraplegic, soon-to-be-unemployed man clinging desperately to the hope that he might one day be able to stand unaided.

He is not ready for that, and so the frustration builds. He can see the way his teammates – ex-teammates – struggle when they come to see him; they can’t seem to meet his eyes and they clearly don’t want to look at anything below his waist, where his legs still lie limp and unmoving and his back is in a brace, so they all settle for staring at his chin or his chest or the pillow beneath his head. The awkward pity in their voices drowns out their words, and he can see the way they have distanced themselves from him, automatically segregating him from their own lives, from what could lie ahead in their futures. They’re doing exactly what he used to do, and the realisation that he is indeed no longer one of them, no longer able to lie to himself about his own vulnerability, stings like little else.

In turn, Owen can barely stand to look at his parents or James, unwilling to catch a glimpse of what they might think of him now. He can’t even control when he shits, for fuck’s sake; he has never had anything but respect and at times admiration for people with disabilities, but there is something distinctly different about it being _him_ living through the gritty realism of it.

A week after the accident, they move him out of intensive care. Rehab takes every last drop of Owen’s energy, chewing him up and spitting him back out at the end of each day to leave him exhausted and almost shaking with frustration. Hints of sensation are returning, but that means all but nothing when even the simplest of tasks takes so much effort and leaves him with so little reward.

James comes by almost every day, and Owen hates his husband seeing him like this, struggling through every moment and hating everything for it – himself, the world, even rugby sometimes – but the days that James can’t make it are worse. Those days, Owen feels alone and small and so much more helpless, and the future seems that bit more bleak.

He hasn’t kicked a rugby ball in over a month, and it’s starting to sink in that he never will again. His entire life, it seems, has been built around the game, and he has lost his sense of certainty, his belief in anything long-lasting, alongside it. If rugby can’t last, if he can’t keep his grasp on the game – the career – he loves, then what chance does anything else have of withstanding the test of time?

What is he without rugby, anyway?

He is his parents’ son, first and foremost, but so much of that still revolves around rugby chats and kicking sessions with his dad, his mum rolling her eyes fondly at them all the while. Owen can still _talk_ rugby, of course, but will it be the same when he can’t play, when all he can discuss is what he has observed? Will it hurt too much to talk about, an unwanted reminder of what he has lost?

He is James’ husband, Jinx’s mate – but no longer a teammate. No longer a Saracen or an England player. He knows both men through rugby, too, so does that entirely count? Yes, he still has them now, regardless of what role rugby plays in his life these days, but he wouldn’t if he had never been a rugby player. He has no doubt that he will lose friends to this, too: the people whose company he enjoys and appreciates, but whom he has no good excuse to see or talk to outside of the game. He will lose his teams as the tightly-knit units that he has always relied on and thrived within.

He _wants_ , one day, to be a father, and he knows that expectations aren’t something to press onto one’s children, but that didn’t stop him having secret hopes and dreams. He wanted to introduce his kids to rugby. He wanted to teach them his own love of the game, and show them its wonders. He wanted to kick the ball about with them just as his dad did with him, and take them along to the club, bring them up in that rugby environment with an added touch of inclusiveness that wasn’t necessarily around when Owen was a kid.

_If he ever does get the chance to be a father, how much would those kids miss out on that Owen could have given them?_

In terms of being a father, Owen would always do what he could to love and support his kids, and to teach them the best lessons life has to offer. There would always be ways he could play with them, even if it isn’t as he once hoped. There’s more to parenting than love, support, and play, though, else his parents would have had a much easier time when he was young. It would remain to be seen whether or not he could be there in all the ways he should be.

Digging deeper, Owen doesn’t know if he can think of a single way to define himself outside of rugby that doesn’t depend wholly on others. As if he needed another reason to feel entirely dependent on those around him; not only can he not function independently, but he can’t _exist_ independently. Beyond the frustration, there is fear in that realisation as well – in the thought that his relationships with his loved ones are changing, that their views of him are shifting, and he no longer knows where he stands ( _and what a loaded phrase that is_ ) with any of them.

Can’t he just learn how to cope with this SCI and focus on recovery and rehabilitation without fending off an ensuing identity crisis?

Of course, he doesn’t mention that to anyone. He doesn’t need to give his ~~teammates~~ friends another reason to pity him, doesn’t need to add to the lines of worry in his parents’ foreheads, doesn’t need to drop another weight on James’s drooping shoulders. He knows that it bothers his husband to see him fighting so hard for every tiny goal that he has agreed with the therapists and still barely getting anywhere; his guilt only grows every time he sees the stress that falls over James’s face with increasing regularity.

On the days James can’t manage a visit, Owen always ends up wondering why James hasn’t given up on him altogether. Sometimes, even when James has spent most of the day working with Owen and the therapists, offering a constant stream of physical and emotional support and throwing himself into his own learning, Owen finds himself unable to hold back the doubts that James will stick around. There is only going to be more for James to do once Owen gets out of this centre and moves into outpatient rehabilitation.

It feels almost as though he’s succumbing to stereotypes, but Owen can’t shake the thought that he has become more of a burden on his loved ones than anything else – and the fact that it _is_ such a cliche only makes it harder to admit.

Perhaps it would be easier if he had more to occupy his mind than just his rehab, and therefore more to offer in terms of conversation, but his go-to would normally be sport, and…

Well, it might be time to watch the last ten minutes of that match – or even review the match as a whole. He hasn’t watched the game back at all, but maybe the familiarity of analysing his own performance as well as that of the team will be a comfort, even if it won’t actually be useful for anything.

_“Moving on, then…” Alex pauses for a moment, waiting for the chuckles to die down as his own lips twist. “It’s been about a month and a half since that horrific accident in the last game of the Six Nations, and – James, I believe we have an exclusive update on how Owen is doing?”_

_James allows himself to smile at that. He and Owen have already made the same jokes, in discussing the matter last week, and it feels good to find a bit of humour in reality again. This is life, now, and it is nice to remember that it doesn’t have to be any more miserable than it was six weeks ago._

_“Yeah, so I’ve been talking to Owen,” he starts, “And… Well, it’s not good. The last thing he needs right now is to be worrying about what to say to the media, so we’ve agreed – when there’s something he feels okay to share with the public, it’s going to come through me on here.”_

_He doesn’t mention why Owen trusts_ him _, of all people, for this; coming out will have to wait for another day, when they are significantly more settled than they are right now._

_“You know, people are talking about how long until he’ll be back fit to play,” he continues, already knowing that he is beating around the bush. “Long story short, it’s not a case of when he’ll be back playing – or even if, honestly. It was a spinal cord injury, and he can’t honestly afford to be worrying about much beyond being able to feel his toes again, and maybe one day walk.”_

_“_ Jesus _,” Ellis mutters, horrified, as Mike sucks in a sharp breath. “Shit, that’s… That’s really tough. Someone like Faz, as well… How’s he doing? I texted him the other day, but I couldn’t get a read off him, you know?”_

_“He’s hanging in there,” James tells him, resolving to offer something a bit more in-depth than the vaguely obvious hand-waving that is about to follow once recording is over. “Nah, it_ is _really tough for him at the moment – we’ve talked about the difficulty of retiring before on here, but this is next level, you know? So much has just been thrown out the window, and he has to learn to live with that.”_

_“That is tough, yeah,” Mike agrees. “It’s… It’s never nice to see a bloke go down like that, and when it’s so severe… There’s adjusting to no longer playing rugby, and that’s really difficult, like you’ve said, Hask. Then you add everything on top of that… I can’t imagine.”_

_“We wish him and his family all the best with his recovery, at any rate,” Alex rounds up, and his stare definitely turns pointed for a second as it lands on James, concern twisting his lips into a frown._

_Slumping back in his seat, James looks away._

In his last week in the rehab centre, exhausted both physically and mentally from a gruelling physiotherapy session, Owen settles down to watch the game on his laptop. James couldn’t come in today, and won’t be in tomorrow, either. He had a long chat with Jinx via text earlier – and he was never one for texting before the accident, but it feels like the only connection he has to most people, now – but that wasn’t enough to shake the misery that has crept up on him throughout the day.

The first seventy minutes are… emotional, but largely in a positive way. He spends more time than he intended watching his own expressions and body language, dwelling on the fact that he didn’t know it would be his last game, that the version of him he is watching has no idea what’s to come…

The rest of his intentions to analyse his performance drown quite quickly beneath the weight of watching himself stand, walk, run, even kick. His legs _move_ , and move well, and it is all so effortless and easy and he misses it. He watches his one missed kick at goal, sees the frustration that screws up his face, and thinks that he would give anything to be able to do that again.

Still, it _is_ a positive experience – his first hint of direct reconnection with rugby, he recognises distantly – and he is glad, by the time the first half draws to a close, that he drummed up the courage to watch this. It is easy to sink into the second half once he has skipped through the half-time punditry, making peace with the fact that he isn’t about to get any detailed analysis done and instead allowing himself to watch and appreciate the match as it moves along.

As the opposition draws closer and closer to England’s line, Owen finds himself getting increasingly tense, even though he knows that they won’t score here – that they didn’t score at all between half-time and his accident – and his thumb is at his lips, teeth caught on the nail, when Tom Curry finally makes the turnover, but the pressure isn’t relieved yet, because they still need to get out of their own 22. Ben Spencer takes the ball, fires it back to where Owen himself has dropped further back for the clearing kick, and the pass is a little low; the Owen on screen has to stoop to collect it, but straightens with it securely in his grip and shapes to kick –

And Owen realises what this is too late, breath catching as he watches his boot strike the ball _one last time_ , and at least the path is good but, even as the camera pans to catch the balls flight, he sees the tackle in the corner of the screen. He sees himself flung down against the pitch like a ragdoll as a scream bursts from the speakers, sees the tackler push away and stand, sees the blinding sky above him through a star-filled vision as fire shoots through his back and he struggles to force down the accompanying nausea. His breath has been forced from him, punched out of his lungs in one swift blow, and he can’t get any air back in.

_This was a mistake._ This was definitely a mistake, and he does not have to think twice about slamming his laptop shut and shoving it to the side, scrambling to get away from the agonised terror it holds – only his legs don’t move with him.

He can’t move his legs. _He can’t feel his legs._ _Why can’t he –_

_Where is the sensation of the sheets beneath his legs? Where is the ache of the day’s rehab, when the rest of his body groans from a workout that was focused on his thighs? Why, no matter how hard he wills his foot to twitch, is it just lying limp at an angle that surely should feel uncomfortable at the least?_

He has sensation in the tops of his legs. He’s meant to have sensation in the tops of his legs.

Desperately, he reaches down and pinches his thigh, tears of relief welling when it registers in his nerves. Still, he pinches harder, keeps going until _pain_ bursts across his senses, and then the sobs burst forth as he curls over his limp, useless limbs and clings to the sharp ache that his fingers have created.

He shakes long after his cheeks have dried, staring blankly at his feet, which seem so alien to him these days. They might as well not be here, for all the good they do him. He can’t feel them, they won’t move for him; what’s the point?

It is with a detached sense of curiosity amid the numb cold flooding the rest of his body that he reaches out to poke one of his feet. Nothing. He didn’t expect anything different but, in this strange new headspace, it fascinates him all the same. With half a mind on the bruise forming, stark against his otherwise pale skin, on the top of his thigh, he pinches the side of his foot. When nothing comes, he cinches his fingers a little tighter, then shifts to dig the nails in, willing something to register.

Surely, if he took his fingers away, there would be angry crescents on the skin, but he still feels nothing.

He presses further, barely holding himself back from clawing into the unfeeling flesh – frustration has been building and building for weeks, and this is the first outlet he has had that has gone any way to helping – and only releases when his fingers start to ache. Where his nails pushed into the skin, scarlet now grows in two curved lines along it, creeping cautiously out to meet the air as he watches in stunned silence.

It seems bizarre that he can make himself bleed without realising it – without experiencing any pain except in his fingers, the instruments he used to cause the damage. His foot has never seemed less like a part of his body than it does now, leaking blood that the rest of him _needs_ , that it is using for – what, exactly?

It seems unfair that it should still be supplied vital substances that he needs when it gives him nothing in return.

It takes a few minutes for the reality of what he has done to sink in but, when it does, he feels ashamed, self-conscious, irrationally scared. He shouldn’t have done that. He has drawn his own blood, has gone out of his way to cause himself pain – without succeeding, he should add – and was almost _satisfied_ to see the damage that he caused himself; it seems as though someone might appear at any moment to deal out retribution for his crime.

As he hurries to cover up the wound, a quiet anger that he has kept under lock and key for so long now burning deep inside his chest, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

As guilty as Owen feels for it, he finds himself staring again at his foot the next morning. His sleep last night was patchy at best, and the grogginess that clouds his mind is as unshakeable as the ache in his upper body, but the cuts on his foot still trigger not a drop of pain in his senses. He should leave them to heal, he knows, but before he does…

Carefully, he reaches out to prod them – still nothing. It doesn’t help the sense of detachment he feels these days when staring at his feet, or even his legs as a whole. The idea that he can injure himself and not know, not _care_ , is alien, which honestly fits with the way his lower body seems to him these days. It is just _other_ , almost like an imposter, as though the legs he has now crept in one day and stole his real legs out from under him.

_It probably isn’t healthy to be angry at your own legs_ , he reflects as he prods more viciously at the appendage that rests before him on the bed.

It doesn’t so much as twitch.

There is a strange satisfaction in getting the cuts bleeding again, in watching the foot _suffer_ , as much as he wants to kid himself that he is only doing this to see if he can feel the wound.

It is with a sense of reluctance to accompany his shame that he finally leaves his foot alone; he has to pinch his thigh quickly to remind himself that there are parts of his legs that he _can_ now feel before he is in any way ready to face the day ahead.

That evening, he shaves alone – with a cheap handle and disposable razors, because it reminds him that at least this situation, living in the rehab centre and working himself to the bone, isn’t permanent – as he considers what is to come. Today has been a relatively good day, despite James’s absence; for once, he can almost see the progress he has made, and he is far lighter for it. He will feel better mentally once he is home, too, as unexpectedly nerve-wracking as the thought of leaving the constant support of trained professionals is.

His condition _is_ improving. He has regained sensation in large areas down to his knees over the past seven or eight weeks, and the doctors seem to believe that he could even regain sensation down to his feet. His motor function is better at his hips and in his upper thighs, and he even seems to be regaining control of his bowel movements. He is lucky, he knows – and he feels it, too.

Still, any hint of feeling has yet to return below his knees. Beyond, his legs are alien, unknown to him, and it is hard to shake the feeling that they are more like parasites than anything of his – than a part of _him_. It is the sort of thing that he should probably have expressed to a psychiatrist by now, but the thought that it might be abnormal, that it could be a sign of something else wrong with him, keeps him quiet.

When his face is bare, he sits back in his chair, turning his eyes downwards to contemplate his legs. Some days, he almost feels that he can come to terms with the fact that he will never have the usage of them that he used to, and today is one of those days. These things happen in life, particularly in a sport like rugby, and if he could go back and do everything again, even knowing how that chapter of his life ends, he’d keep it all the same.

Unfortunately, such peaceful moods can flip on a dime, and the longer he stares at his legs, the colder he feels. _Why_ does this have to be how his career ended? Why should he feel lucky about where he is? He isn’t lucky. The chances of an injury like his occurring on the pitch – from a not uncommon tackle, at that – are incredibly small. He is horrifically _unlucky_ , and it is pointless to pretend otherwise.

In a flash of impulsive anger, he reaches down and snatches at his leg, yanking it up; the struggle to get it folded and settled on his other thigh only frustrates him further. His sock comes off, revealing the cuts from last night, and he fixes his eyes blankly on them as he wrestles with his emotions and struggles to work out what it actually is that he wants to do. What is the point of his urges – and what can he do that he hasn’t already, anyway?

It is quite by chance that, even as he is starting to regain control of himself, he spots the shaver lying on the side of the sink and, as his eyes flicker up to it, the pack of disposable razors sitting innocently beyond. Frozen, he hesitates with his hand already open as if to reach out and take one, torn between the knowledge that this isn’t sensible and the desperate temptation to see what would happen.

The dissonance between his sense of self and his view of his unfeeling lower limbs wins out. If the nails were fine, what harm would a razor do? It will probably be more hygienic, if anything.

If a small, vindictive part of him wants to know exactly how much harm a razor _can_ do, then no one needs to know. There is no one here to see it. This can just be a one-time thing, just a little cut to satisfy his anger and curiosity and to scratch that frustrated itch, then he can put this strange need to cause his own body damage aside and move on. The otherwise inexpressible emotions that have been clawing at him from the inside out for so long, now, will finally be laid to bed.

Better to do it here than at home.

If his fingers shake as he takes the razor from its packaging and settles it over his foot, then, again, there is no one here to see it. There is no one here but him, sitting in a wheelchair with tears pricking in his eyes.

Carefully, he lowers the razor, dragging it over his skin, but he can’t gauge the pressure as he would have been able to if he were working with skin he can feel, so he manages only a long, thin papercut-type wound. It is hardly enough to satisfy the burning in his chest.

He tries again, pressing deeper this time and ignoring the way his skin crawls at the sight of the sharp blade cutting through his own flesh, his foot unfeeling and unmoving all the while. Despite his frustration, his eyes are welling with liquid that blurs his vision and, when the first sob bursts forth, it shakes his body and jolts his hands, the razor slicing suddenly deeper.

Alarmed, he pulls it out, unable to miss the red that gleams on its metal surface even through the haze of tears, but even that is not so clear as the dark crimson that wells from deep within his foot, spilling out over skin that doesn’t feel a hint of its remote intangibility – until it hits his fingers, and then the warm wetness is all too real.

“Shit,” he croaks, then again, as blood drips onto his other leg and the floor, “ _Shit_!”

He scrambles for the ‘help’ cord through building distress, dropping the razor when it digs into his palm then lifting scarlet-stained hands to press into his eyes as his body shudders with desperate, choking gasps. He shouldn’t have done that – _why did he do that_?

There is undoubtedly blood – his blood, from _his_ foot – smeared over his face now, but he can’t bring himself to care when it already spatters the tiles and the wheelchair, when it pools in the creases of his foot and shimmers in the light as a nurse wheels him hurriedly backwards to get access to the wound. It doesn’t even hurt, but he feels light-headed, and _fuck_ , he’s such an idiot, he shouldn’t have done that, why did he –?

He can’t feel it. He can’t feel his foot. _He can’t feel his legs._

_Where is the sensation of the blood dripping through his toes? Where is the vicious sting of the cut, the deeper pressure of the hand now pressing cloth over it to stem the flow? Why, no matter how hard he wills his bleeding, bruised foot to twitch, is it just hanging limp in a grip that surely should feel uncomfortable at the least?_

He doesn’t know why he’s crying, but he’s raw and exhausted and he just wants this to be over. When does he get to stand up and walk into training again? When does he get to lace up his boots or line up a kick? When does he get to kneel by James’s chair again – just fold his legs beneath himself and _voluntarily_ stop using them, knowing and taking for granted that they will respond when it is time to move?

They must know that he did this himself, but no one mentions it as they bandage up his foot and clean away the blood, offering him wipes for his face and trembling hands then doing it for him when he doesn’t respond. He did this to himself, only his foot doesn’t feel like him – it doesn’t feel like anything. It doesn’t feel like its very last action was a clean clearing kick to relieve pressure. It doesn’t feel like the trusted tool it has always been.

It doesn’t feel like something he wants attached to him at all.

When a nurse takes his hand – now free of bloodstains – and crouches with a gentle, understanding smile to comfort him, he only cries harder. He doesn’t deserve their kindness, their help, any more than he deserves to force the burden of caring for him onto James, or indeed anyone at all. He doesn’t think he deserves the accident, either.

Why did it have to be _him_?

Eventually, he has to talk. He doesn’t want to, but he knows he should, so, when one of the nurses calls softly but firmly for his attention, he nods and forces back the still-rising sobs, lifting his forearm to his eyes until they start to dry. He feels rather light-headed, now, and he isn’t sure whether it comes from the crying or the blood loss.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she asks, as if it isn’t obvious, and are they really going to make Owen explain it all to them?

Mute, he waves a limp hand at the pack of razors still sitting on the sink, biting his lip when he almost dissolves back into tears at the mere sight.

The nurse only nods encouragingly. With his eyes dry, he can see well enough to recognise her but, though he should definitely know her name, his brain is too scattered to recall it.

“I was… angry,” he admits, his throat scratchy as his nose burns. “I – I wanted to see what would happen. It slipped.”

“The razor?” she clarifies, and squeezes his hand when his breath hitches. “It’s alright, Owen. For tonight, we’ll make a record of this and get your foot treated, and we can sort everything else out tomorrow.”

_Sorting everything else out_ , Owen discovers, is shorthand for _spending two hours with one of the psychiatrists and inevitably agreeing that perhaps it isn’t a good idea to become an outpatient so soon, and that they should all spend some more time working on the mental side of his recovery and rehabilitation, with maybe a bit more communication – if you can manage that, hmm, Owen?_

“Wait, you’re not coming home on Thursday?” James asks when Owen dares to break the news, bewilderment fading quickly into concern as Owen picks at his shirt. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Owen gestures in silence to the bandages around his foot; he hasn’t bothered to try and get a sock on over them, never mind a shoe.

“What happened?” James repeats, staring at Owen’s foot. “Did you fall?”

“I cut myself,” Owen explains stiffly, and isn’t sure whether he meant to say that his foot got cut or that he did it himself.

“Yeah, but how?”

Swallowing, Owen steels himself and lifts his gaze to meet his husband’s eyes.

“ _I_ cut myself,” he reiterates, barely louder than a whisper.

James’s mouth opens and closes, and Owen has no idea how to explain himself. Humiliatingly, his body seems well-prepared to get out of any elaboration, because in seconds he is breaking down just like he did the night before, James swearing softly and leaning in to wrap warm, strong arms around him.

“I c – couldn’t even fucking _f_ – _feel_ it!” he sobs into James’s chest, speech cut apart by painful whimpers. “I just – I just w – wanted it to _hurt_ …”

It takes some time and a lot of crying to communicate how he was feeling – how he has been feeling for weeks and is still feeling now – but it all comes out bit by bit, the words tripping from Owen’s tongue and out through his trembling lips as he splutters and cries. At least he isn’t alone in his uncontrollable distress; it seems that James can’t help but get a little choked up at times too, particularly when Owen confesses to having attempted to watch the match back – though that might be more a response to Owen’s struggles to get the admission out than anything else.

He wants a chance to rest, he wants this to end, and he wants to stop dragging everyone else down with him. Is that so much to ask?

“You’re not a burden, Owen, I promise you,” James murmurs finally, when Owen has exhausted both himself and his words in confessing everything that has been running through his mind lately. “I’m in this because I love you, and this isn’t going to change that. You think I’m the sort of bloke to do something because I feel obligated?”

Owen manages a faint laugh at that, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as his skull starts to pound with horrible pressure.

“I don’t know,” he concedes, hoarse and tired. “I just – It wasn’t…”

He gives up, shaking his head.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” James assures him, stroking lightly through his hair. “Just – Please, talk to me. I’m going to be here every day from now on, so…”

Slowly, Owen starts to calm himself, sipping water to soothe the sickening ache in his head as he rests against James and focuses on composing himself. There is relief, somehow, in confessing all of this and, in truth, he doesn’t know why he thought there might not be. It is a lesson he learnt time and again in the earlier years of his career: talking might be uncomfortable, but it is all but essential.

“Would it help,” James begins eventually, when the tension in Owen’s shoulders has released and his mind seems a little clearer, “To see if we can work out some way for you to sub for a bit? Obviously, if you’re not in the right place for it, if you don’t think now’s a good time, it wouldn’t help, whatever… That’s fine – but… You said it’s been bothering you that intimacy won’t be the same, and I was just thinking – would it help, do you think, to remind yourself that not everything has to change? And intimacy isn’t all about sex, never mind that there’s so many ways to go about _that_ …”

Owen forces himself to think it through. Would it help? It might. He isn’t in the most stable of headspaces, he knows, and that makes delving into that side of things a bit more risky, but it can also be very settling, and he has to agree with what James has said; it might help to reassure him that this doesn’t just rule out getting intimate with his husband at all – that they don’t even have to switch up absolutely everything they do.

“I think it could?” he offers cautiously, running the words over his tongue. “But definitely nothing wild. Just…”

“Slow and fairly casual?” James checks. “Is that something you’d rather wait a few days for, or would you rather today? It’s fine to wait, yeah? If you think it’d be better?”

Hesitating, Owen rubs his thumb along his index as he considers it. He doesn’t know if he wants to wait; the anticipation might make it worse, might give him a chance to get nervous, and that could lead to some bad outcomes. At the same time, he knows that he shouldn’t rush into it, but as long as they take it slowly and don’t go too far, he should be okay.

“Today would be good,” he decides, taking a moment to question himself one last time before nodding in confirmation.

“Alright,” James agrees. “Let’s move over to the bed, then – should be more comfortable.”

It takes some work, just like always, but Owen gets himself settled on the bed eventually, lying back when prompted to rest his head in James’s lap.

“Just say if you need to stop,” James tells him, running fingers lightly over his scalp. “Just ‘stop’, and that’ll be it, yeah?”

Nodding, Owen feels some of the involuntary tension drain from his body. Nothing heavy at all, then, if James is happy to leave it at that – nothing even close to the edge of what they know.

“Just close your eyes, then, love,” James instructs gently, then his hand moves over Owen’s eyes to cover them. “I’m here, you’re here, and all you have to do is stay still. I’m just going to tell you about what’s going on in the NFL – listen if you want, but feel free to let it drift past.”

It is perhaps one of the simplest things they have ever done, but Owen slides away to the gentle lull of his husband’s voice in minutes, calm and safe as his muscles ease and his mind falls quiet for the first time in months.

It is the next day, while Owen works shakily through physical rehab with vital motivation provided by his husband, feeling lighter than he has in many weeks, that James pipes up with something that takes him entirely by surprise.

“Tinds wants to know if you’ve thought about trying some kind of wheelchair sport.”

Owen hadn’t but, even as he turns his focus temporarily away from his rehab to pull a considering face and shrug, he has to concede that it’s a thought.

“I kind of want to go into coaching,” he admits, to a gentle huff from James.

“Of course you do,” his husband returns fondly, as though they haven’t had this talk before; Owen wasn’t always so sure of it, but his certainty has grown over the last couple of years. “You know what Eddie told me –”

“There’s no money in it, I know,” Owen interrupts, rolling his eyes even as his lips tug up. “I think… If I talked to Sarries about it, they might be able to help. You know there’s been talk before about taking up a role there when I retire.”

For a moment, he hesitates.

“If there’s a good opportunity to get into a different sport,” he tacks on carefully, the ‘as an athlete’ going unsaid, “I might look into it.”

James nods encouragingly, and that’s all there is to the conversation, but it gets Owen thinking – not necessarily about picking up a new sport in particular, just… about the future, about what he wants to do and where he wants to go. He doesn’t want to accept that this is his new reality – doesn’t feel at all ready to make this his new normal – but it strikes him that, if he were still a professional athlete, he would have forced himself to reach, at the very least, a level of acceptance where he felt he could move on long before now. He has had almost two months, and the longer he fights against the _inevitable_ , the more doors he could be closing for himself without even realising it.

He cannot fool himself into believing that his mental state surrounding all of this is anything close to stable – one day of talking it out and going under for James isn’t going to magically fix anything, as much as it _helps_ – but that just makes it all the more important to do what he can whenever he feels up to it, and that starts with looking into coaching.

Honestly, Owen shouldn’t be surprised that Mark all but jumps at the opportunity to kickstart Owen’s coaching career at Saracens. It _has_ been an increasingly regular discussion point over the last few years, especially as Owen has started leaning more and more into opportunities working with the Academy, and he has always known that Saracens would have his back at the end of his playing career.

_If you’re up for it, there’s a coaching role open for the men’s team_ , Mark tells him via text, which is an interesting prospect, considering many of the men he’d be coaching were his teammates mere months ago.

Some of them are older than him.

_Kevin’s leaving at the end of the season and we don’t have a new backs coach to replace him yet. You’re more than qualified for it_

_Don’t feel rushed to decide just yet_

Through the entire rehabilitation process, there are a few friends of Owen’s who have checked in at the very least twice a week, and for them he is grateful. Jinx, Will, and Jacko seem to have some sort of system worked out where at least one of them will text him each and every day, sometimes just to ask how he is and sometimes for a longer chat, and each of them gives him something different.

Jacko has become the main provider of club news, tying Owen into Saracens and keeping him updated on all the stories and inside jokes as though Owen is still a part of the team. Will, perhaps more surprisingly than it should be, offers the most practical support of the three, and seems best equipped to understand everything that Owen is struggling to cope with, from the physical rehabilitation and technical jargon to the emotional ups and downs and the worries Owen has for the future; he even mentions that his younger brother Henry would be more than up for helping in any way Owen needs, but Owen has yet to take him up on it.

Jamie is… Jamie. He is there for the deep, emotional discussions when Owen edges close to admitting the worst of his fears – even if they never quite make it that far, Owen backing off each and every time – and for the mindless banter that flows back and forth in fast-paced messages. Somewhere along the line, they sink into a new routine in which Jamie calls Owen after each and every match he plays, initially to talk about the most inane of topics but, when Owen – now on the cusp of getting home for real, this time – finally feels ready for it, about the game that has just been. They break down the team’s performance, analyse Jamie’s own game, and dissect the highlights of the match, and Owen couldn’t be more grateful for it.

The day Owen gets to head home for the first time in over two months, all three of them text him early in the morning, leaving him to wake up to their messages; it’s a warming start to an equally exciting and terrifying day. Over the next few hours, more messages filter through: from Elliot, Maro, Fordy…

“Tinds and Payno say good luck and congratulations,” James offers when Owen comments on the sheer number of texts and DMs he has now received, as they emerge from the rehab centre into the early afternoon sun. “Don’t have your number like Ellis, obviously.”

“As in, they both say good luck and congratulations, or one says the first and…?”

Owen trails off, grinning, when James snorts, and turns his attention back to wheeling himself along the tarmac in the carpark. He is mostly used to moving in a wheelchair by now, but unfamiliar surfaces and situations still sometimes catch him off-guard, and he doesn’t plan on anything going wrong so soon.

At least the press aren’t here, because Owen isn’t sure he’d be able to do this if they turned up.

It is, admittedly, a little strange to think that he is going home to a house that won’t _be_ ‘home’ for much longer; now that he is an outpatient, the search for a new house can begin in earnest, because the one they’ve got at the moment simply isn’t suitable for a wheelchair-user in the long-term – and that is what he is now, what he will be for the rest of his life. As pleased as the doctors are with the recovery he has made so far, Owen knows that no one expects him to walk again.

These days, he cannot even count himself an exception.

Still, he thinks he might be able to live with that. With a gentle breeze brushing over his skin and the morning sun warming his face, James rambling on about NFL at his side, Owen feels almost at peace with the situation, maybe even ready to get started on life outside of recovery, rehab, and therapy again. It is worth, at any rate, having a go.


	2. See It Break on Your Horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's *totally* not the case that I put my current long-term fic on hiatus for half the term and, in that time, have posted the first chapter of this and written the second, which I'm now posting. Neither is it the case that I have end-of-term and vacation work to do for uni, which I have also been disregarding in favour of this. Even if either were true, I would definitely not be in the process of learning that it might be connected to all the other things that have come together to make my GP think I have ADHD. No, not at all. Why would anyone think that?
> 
> What A Game, though - so pleased for the England lads right now! (Also, both Saracens (rugby) teams went well this weekend, which is really the icing on the cake, particularly after the men's performance last week.)
> 
> At any rate, a shorter chapter than last time by a fair margin, but I'm playing these things by ear and it felt right not to extend this to the same length, both because this is where it came out naturally and the last chapter felt like it should be particularly long. I'd really appreciate any feedback, as ever, and finally - 
> 
> Warning for brief mention of self-harm that occurred in the first chapter.

“How have you been recently, James?”

Slowly, James blows out a breath, not so much releasing but rather forcing the tension from his body as he nurses at his forehead.

“Not great, I’ll be honest,” he offers; his therapist hums in quiet prompt. “My husband’s in hospital. Damaged his spinal cord – the doctors don’t think he’ll walk again.”

Owen hasn’t accepted that yet, James knows. Owen has never been one to bow to the limits that others attempt to prescribe him, and it is one item in an uncountable list of all that James loves about him. All the same, James cannot help but wish that his husband would take this at face value – just the once, to save him the agony of getting his hopes up only to be inevitably crushed.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” his therapist tells him softly. “I can’t imagine that can be easy. How are you feeling about it? What’s on your mind at the moment?”

James opens his mouth, then closes it. What _is_ on his mind? So much of what the future holds seems to be up in the air at the moment that he doesn’t feel as though he has much to form opinions on – besides the obvious concern for Owen. Then again, that lack of clarity is probably something he could do with talking about.

“There’s a lot of uncertainty right now,” he begins slowly, letting the ideas fall from his lips as they come to him. “I don’t know what’s going to happen for him – for his recovery – or what it means for us financially, just going forward in general. I want to support him, but I don’t know how. I… All it feels like I can do at the moment is be there with him when I’m allowed – but I can’t even do that, because I can’t just skip some job or another. I just have to rock up and pretend everything’s fine – like my _husband_ isn’t…”

Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he blows out a breath.

“It’s all anyone wants to talk about right now, anyway,” he admits. “It happened on national television, and there’s no getting away from it.”

There isn’t any getting away from it anyway, because it is _Owen_ lying in that hospital bed, scared and despairing and clinging to hopes so fragile that they already seem to be breaking, and James can’t forget that for one second. He itches with the need to take care of his husband, to be the one helping Owen through this, and he hopes that he is offering a good level of emotional support but, all the same, so much seems to be in the hands of doctors and luck at the moment. Neither James nor Owen have ever been huge fans of leaving anything at all to something so fickle as _luck_.

“Do you want to get away from it?” his therapist asks, and James hesitates. “It’s perfectly reasonable if you do. You need to take a break yourself.”

“I know,” James allows carefully. “I just… He _can’t_. And trying to switch off the part of me that’s worrying about him…”

“It isn’t easy, is it?”

“No,” James sighs. “No, it’s not.”

He would talk to Owen about any of these problems as they arose, in most circumstances – but these are far from most circumstances. At some point, when they are both in the right headspace and the situation allows it, they will sit down and discuss everything that has happened and everything that may yet come in a manner that includes James’s feelings on it all, but that might not come for some time. Owen has so much to deal with as it stands that James cannot, in good conscience, add to the pile of issues bearing down on his husband.

There is open, honest communication, and there is having the presence of mind to know when your loved ones could collapse under the weight of any further stress. In the same way that he likes to think he would trust Owen to make those decisions if the situation were reversed, if James were the one with his world crumbling down around him, he intends to hold the brunt of his own concerns away from Owen’s shoulders until Owen can take it.

All the same, he _is_ worried about Owen, about the physical recovery and the mental repercussions, and about their future, their finances, the big question of _what comes next_? They have discussed what they might do after Owen’s retirement, but never with certainty, and hardly often. Owen didn’t intend to step back from rugby until he _couldn’t_ put his all into it, whether through wear-and-tear or emotional exhaustion, and neither of them imagined that it would come to this. Trying to plan for what comes after a situation of which you have little-to-no concept of the details is almost impossible.

Owen is retired, though, however little he is ready for it, and it strikes James that so much of what has structured their lives is falling away. They might not _see_ it for some time, but eventually, when they settle into a new normal, it will hit home that there will be no more long weeks spent apart, that they can take holidays in the summer and maybe visit their families, that all the constraints of elite sport that have shadowed their lives have vanished.

James has learnt, somewhat, to build his own routine in its place, but it has helped that he could follow along with Owen’s rigid structure. Now, he will have to adjust from that to the comparatively simple timings of a normal job, while his husband plummets from one extreme to the other in a heartbeat.

None of it is going to be easy.

James would honestly give anything to be with Owen right now. In fact, he’d take anywhere that isn’t here – anywhere he doesn’t have to cling to this façade of composure and unaffectedness, doesn’t have to laugh and joke and pretend that everything is fine, doesn’t have to watch the footage of Owen’s accident all over again and weigh in on the discussion like he hasn’t spent the last two weeks watching the very real consequences unfold before his eyes.

On the TV in the studio, Owen goes down, and James succeeds in tamping down on any reaction beyond a small grimace. As if the producers have some kind of secret grudge against him – and hidden knowledge of his marriage – however, the footage loops over, and James can’t tear his eyes away from the agonised twist of Owen’s face when his husband hits the ground; the clip is silenced, but Owen’s scream still rings in his ears every time he watches it.

Two weeks on, and it is still all anyone seems to want to talk about. James understands why, of course, as much as he wishes they’d all let it lie. An ordinary tackle, a horrific injury, the ongoing mystery of _what went wrong_ – these sorts of things always attract attention and, more importantly, spark a reignited discussion about the safety of the game. That Owen is one of the most well-known faces in the men’s game – on the world stage in general, even – has only added to the furore.

“Look,” he starts when he is finally called upon to speak, glad for the distraction it provides from the photo now glaring down at him from the screens around him: Owen surrounded by medical staff, face slackening with the pain meds they put him on. “What we need to remember is… sometimes accidents happen in sport. Not just rugby, in any sport. Sometimes there’s a freak accident, and something terrible happens, and… that’s what’s happened here.

“It’s – It’s horrible for Owen, of course it is…” James falters, forgetting momentarily what he intended to say – _horrible_ will never even begin to cut it – then grasps his thread again and soldiers on. “It’s not anyone’s fault, is what I’m trying to say, and it’s not a problem with the rules, or tackle technique, or anything like that. It’s just what happened, and I’m honestly not sure what _could_ be done.”

It is what he knows Owen believes, and what he has to agree with his husband on; this was that single unlucky accident, that one-in-a-million chance, and there isn’t anything they can do to the game without altering its very essence that can entirely rule out such things. These things happen in _life_ , never mind contact sport.

“I agree with you, Hask, but… I do think we owe it to Owen and his family to _make sure_ , you know? As a game, as a community, it’s our duty to –”

“I think Owen and his family just want everyone to leave it be,” James mutters, because he is tired of this, tired of people putting words in Owen’s mouth, and he wants the constant rehashing of it to _stop_.

A moment later, he notices everyone staring at him, the surprise and caution in their faces, and realises that he actually _did_ say that aloud – and that very few of them have any idea where he is coming from.

“Let’s… take a ten minute break, I think?” one of the producers ventures carefully, and James grasps the chance to stand and flee the blazing images of his husband’s suffering at once.

It is Scaz who follows him out after a few minutes, slipping carefully from the studio and closing the door behind herself to settle against the wall of the corridor in an almost-mirror of James’s own stance. Her faint smile is edged with caution and sympathy, and James doesn’t even want to meet her eyes.

“How’s he doing?” she offers after a prolonged stretch of awkward silence.

Heaving his shoulders in a shrug, James blows out a slow breath. Scaz, at least, knows the situation from James’s perspective – knows both him and Owen as separate people and, hidden away from the media, as a couple. James was aware of her concerned stare across the desk in the studio for the entirety of the discussion, but it was better to deal with that and know that he could relax while she spoke than to sit through the blunt words of everyone who still doesn’t know to watch their step.

“Not great,” he admits, scrubbing at his eyes quickly to clear them. “Just a lot of rehab right now, you know? He’s not going to be watching any of this, at least.”

Scaz’s understanding nod eases only a fraction of the tension in James’s shoulders.

“Is there… anything I can do to help? In there, or with anything else…?”

James waves the idea off at once.

“Thanks, but… Yeah, there’s not really anything – It’s just about keeping moving, I guess,” he tells her, the words ashen on his tongue.

He doubts she believes him, but she doesn’t press the point.

“I know you always said you might come out when he stopped playing,” she starts instead, a change of subject that James more than appreciates. “Do you reckon that might be something coming up?”

This, James could do with talking about for a bit. It has been weighing on his mind, and he is waiting for a good time to discuss it with Owen as well, though it isn’t exactly urgent; he doesn’t expect anything to come of it for a good few months at least, so it can hang in there until they are both ready for the conversation. A chance to briefly run through his thoughts with someone he trusts, though, would be more than welcome.

“Probably,” he starts, Scaz nodding encouragingly. “Not for a while, but… Yeah, it was always pretty certain – once he didn’t have to deal with the media every week or whatever, we’d start having a look at it.”

“Any ideas how you’d do it?” she prompts, curious. “Let me guess – you want a double-page spread with photos, he wants to just start dropping pronouns.”

Barking out a laugh, James shakes his head.

“I don’t know,” he concedes, not bothering to go into the fact that his opinions on the matter vary quite distinctly depending on whether he is thinking about coming out as an individual or as Owen’s husband; he’ll stick with the latter for the time being. “I think we’d both prefer not to draw it out too much, you know? Just get it out there, no confusion, that’d be it. He’d draw the line at a photoshoot, though, I reckon.”

“I’ll be waiting for it,” she teases. “Rainbow flags, glitter…”

James snorts.

“See if I can talk him into leather,” he jokes. “That’d take the world by storm.”

Admittedly, thinking about it, that’d probably be more for his sake than anyone else’s; Owen in a leather harness, he can more than get behind, even if it isn’t their normal style. The idea that Owen might well be up for trying it – he rarely draws the line without having a go first – will have to wait for later, though.

“I think we’d all need a warning first,” Scaz laughs, though curiosity glints in her eyes; James can almost hear her wondering if there is any seriousness behind the leather talk.

She doesn’t ask, of course, and James wouldn’t tell her even if she did. His and Owen’s kinks are for him to know and her to never find out.

For a few minutes, they remain in the hallway, the tension slowly sliding from James’s body as they talk. It is good to remember that there are people around who know what he is dealing with, who understand what is going through his head when the rest of the world expects him to be all fine and dandy.

When one of the producers pokes her head out to call them back in, it is almost easy to ignore the eyes that follow him back to his seat, and to settle in place without so much as glancing at the screens dotted around the studio. ‘Almost’, of course, is the operative word, but James will take it.

He should have been there.

Alone in his kitchen – his and Owen’s kitchen – and staring blankly at his hands, James cannot dislodge that single, gut-wrenching thought from where it has rooted itself in his brain. He should have been there, with his husband, providing the support that Owen _needs_ , not whiling his time away bantering with his friends on a stupid fucking _podcast_.

It isn’t going to happen again. He has already messaged the chat, made it very clear that if he joins them for any more episodes before Owen gets out of rehab, it will be via video call, and likely not for the full time. He has had understanding responses, of course; no one is going to begrudge him spending as much time as possible with his husband in a situation like this. He just wishes he had made that decision sooner.

Never in his life has he seen Owen cry like that, crumbling in front of him with words spilling forth through the tears that rocked James to his core. He knew Owen was struggling, and he thought he was helping, but clearly he wasn’t doing enough.

No, he can’t blame himself for all of this. It isn’t fair on himself to expect that he should have the answers for everything in such difficult circumstances, and nor is it fair on Owen to suppose that everything his husband is going through can be solved by _just trying harder_. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it much easier to keep from wishing that, somehow, he had been able to help Owen stay away from dropping this low.

Owen hurt himself – _Owen hurt himself_ , picked up a razor with the intent to cause harm to himself, deliberately sliced his own foot open. He was alone and in need of support and James wasn’t there.

More than anything, it is obvious that their communication has been faltering. Normally, they make a point of staying open and honest with each other, talking through their problems, and they have failed in that, at least. It is neither Owen’s fault nor James’s, per say, but it is something that they need to fix.

Following that, James can recognise that he has been a lot more reserved in his affection, and part of that has been an automatic response to the cues he has read in Owen’s behaviour, part of it a result of his urge to avoid pushing Owen too hard, but it needs to change. Nothing about Owen’s injury should make it less okay to express his attraction to Owen or his desire for intimacy. He has been _aware_ of wanting to touch Owen, to hold him, to kiss him, and he just hasn’t let it out, for foolish, irrational reasons. All it has done is stress him out – and it likely hasn’t done Owen any good to be on the other end of it either, for all that he doesn’t seem to have consciously noticed.

Today was a start. Even something as simple as having Owen’s head in his lap, seeing that Owen trusts him enough to lay bare vulnerabilities and slide away under his care, was almost breath-taking, and they both needed it. That doesn’t spell an end to it, though; James doesn’t intend for there to _be_ an end. He will have to talk to Owen, explain what he has been thinking and what he wants to change, but ultimately he refuses to let things slip back to how they were.

The conversation, when it comes a few days later, goes well – as does what follows. There is a sense in which James feels as though he is re-learning Owen’s body – that they both are – because Owen obviously can’t feel some things the same way as he once would have, if at all, but he also has new areas of sensitivity that take them both by surprise. James delights in finding exactly where it is best to stroke, to kiss, or even to bite to have Owen squirming and panting underneath him, even if there is only so far they feel comfortable going when outside the privacy of their own home, in sheets that they will not be the ones washing.

“That was new,” Owen murmurs into James’s chest when they settle down to watch a league match instead, fingers still tracing light patterns over James’s ribs.

Humming in agreement, James kisses the top of Owen’s head and resettles the arm around his husband’s shoulders more securely, squeezing tighter.

“It was good,” he offers quietly, and feels Owen relax against him.

The game kicks off, and Owen’s attention divides itself between the laptop they are playing it on and James’s torso with practised ease, James content to watch the man lying next to him – half on top of him, even – more than whatever Wigan are doing with their own version of an oddly shaped ball. He wants to have this – a family-friendly version of this – in public, he reflects, and he has become so used to waiting for some other, undefined year to get it that he almost doesn’t know what to do now that it seems within touching distance.

For so long, now, he has sat back and kept his mouth shut on so much of what he has wanted to fire back with when Owen has come under intense criticism. He has seen how unfair it is, how much the media and the fans villainise Owen, and James knows that he cares more about it of the two of them, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hold back from spilling forth more than the censored parts of what he wants to get out there.

He has held his tongue in changing rooms, too, and let the vitriol spewed forth against his husband pass him by; that was easier to do, because it felt _normal_ in a way the media’s targeted attacks never did. Every opposing team got criticised, and the more well-known the players in that team, the more abuse they copped behind closed doors, and it was never actually anything personal. That didn’t mean it was ever a nice situation, to watch them pin Owen’s face to tackle bags in training or detail exactly how to target _the opposition ten_ – all Owen was allowed to be to him – or fall into a long-winded rant about that _fucking twat Farrell_ , but at least that, James could be assured was mutual. Whatever James’s ignorant clubmates said about Owen, he knew just as well that Saracens had free reign from Owen to dig into him, and a good few of them were more than aware of Owen’s marriage.

It isn’t just about holding back from defending Owen, though. It is being able to take moments like this, Owen warm and as soft as he ever gets against James’s side, without worrying about who might see or where cameras might appear from. It is having a chance to talk about his husband, and wear his wedding ring on display, and be proud of the man he married.

It is not having to lie to friends and teammates about a holiday in December 2019, pretending that he was going abroad when in fact he was sneaking off to the other end of the country to his own wedding. Maybe it’s a bit late for that one, but it might have been nice to try things differently, for all that he can’t truly say he would change a thing.

“How would you feel,” he starts slowly, and Owen’s eyes flick away from the league at once, “If I started talking about being married on the pod?”

Owen shifts minutely to lock gazes, a faint furrow in his brow – a sign of thoughtfulness, not instant distaste.

“Just… being married?” he asks. “Or to a man, or…?”

“To a man,” James clarifies, lifting a hand to stroke through said man’s hair. “No names, though. No need to rush – unless you’d rather do that.”

The immediate scrunching of Owen’s nose makes his feelings on that last matter quite clear, as James expected.

“If you’re comfortable doing that,” Owen offers on the main topic at hand, “I’d be fine with it. Just as long as you’re not… I don’t know, shouting who I am in – in all but words, I guess.”

“Never,” James assures him. “Not without your say-so. I’d probably warm up to it, honestly – it feels big, you know? After so long of just not saying anything, as well.”

Nodding, Owen’s hand finally stills on James’s chest, flattening out to rest in place instead.

“Reckon Payno could help you out?”

James eyes the younger man, curious.

“How do you mean?” he prompts. “If I asked him to do something, I’m sure he would, but…”

Lips twisting, Owen drops his head onto James’s chest again.

“Just…” he sighs, apparently struggling with how to explain his thoughts; James scratches his scalp lightly and is satisfied when he relaxes. “You’ve always asked him to… just to not ask about me when he asks about Zara and all that, right? Just change that.”

Blinking, James considers the idea. That hadn’t actually occurred to him; there he was, trying to figure out how he might bring his partner into the conversation when he finally feels ready, and Owen just comes out with this.

“Sometimes you’re just so annoying, you know?” he teases, Owen rolling his eyes. “Yeah, that could actually work really well.”

Clearly pleased, Owen settles back in to watch the rugby. For a moment longer, James considers him in silence, hand resting in that soft, light hair. _Just ask Alex to bring him up – of course._

Sometimes, James has to face the facts: he really loves his husband.

It is a relief to watch Owen start to settle into the situation over the next few weeks. What exactly it is that is boosting this progress – the release of some of Owen’s worst frustrations, the chance to focus on something that feels productive in starting to negotiate a coaching role at Saracens, the extra psychological support that the rehab centre is now offering him, or some combination of those factors and others – James doesn’t know, but it is wonderful to see. Knowing that his husband is some way to accepting what has happened relieves some of his own stress in turn, and it seems that bit easier to deal with the renewed conversations about Owen’s accident that come with the conclusion of the domestic season and the approaching summer Tests – though staying with Owen instead of facing the conversation directly is hardly an irrelevant factor.

That isn’t, of course, to say that everything is suddenly perfect. Owen still has his bad days and, for all that James prefers to be around to help when they come, it hurts to see the pain and defeat that seems to shadow everything. Sometimes, Owen’s self-esteem plummets without warning, and James is starting to realise just how fragile it is now. Of the two of them, although James adopts loud exuberance for the camera, Owen has always held a greater confidence in himself that only sat quieter, hidden beneath the surface. For James, to be hit with the realisation that his husband might hold more self-doubt than himself these days is startling.

Understandable, when Owen is still struggling his way through figuring out where he stands with himself, with his career, with _anything_ , but startling all the same.

There are the little things as well, creeping up on James to leave him winded when the meaning sinks in. When Owen requests his help with shaving, nothing unusual registers – he has shaved Owen in the past, for no more reason than that it is a small moment of intimacy to share, so why pass it up – until Owen shoves the pack of disposable razors in his direction with shaking hands, and it hits home in one horrible moment _why_ Owen has asked for this. It is all James can do to keep his own hands steady after that.

All the same, they make it to the stage where it is once more feasible to start planning for exactly when Owen can make the transition to outpatient – and then, this time, to the date itself. Having Owen home is incredible, far better than James could ever have imagined. They might now be preparing to find a nice bungalow nearby and leave this place behind, but what matters is that, for the time being, this place is theirs and theirs alone, and they are here, together, for the first time in months.

Heartbreakingly, it seems to take Owen a good half hour to grasp, with a sense of bewildered realisation, that he is actually _home_ after so long, and then James has to watch his husband process yet again that everything is different, now – that even something as simple as sitting on their couch together, watching whatever highlights are on, will never feel quite the same again.

He suspects that Owen almost offers to cook dinner on impulse before remembering that it isn’t possible at the moment. That will change when they move house – though probably not straight away, not until renovations on their new place have been completed – but, for now, there is nothing for James to do but bundle his husband up tightly until the defeated slump fades from Owen’s shoulders.

“It’s weird,” Owen admits several hours later, when they have retreated together to bed – a bed that James called the likes of Jamie George and Jackson Wray around yesterday to help him move downstairs. “I think… I expected everything to just – to be normal. I don’t know _why_ I did, but…”

Trailing off, he lifts a hand to scrub at his eyes, James catching the movement in the half-light of late summer evening that slips through the curtains and struggling for something to offer in reassurance.

“It’s going to be alright,” is all he can think of at first. “Change can be good, yeah?”

Owen stills for a long moment, and James worries that he might have said the wrong thing. Did that sound too dismissive? Did it seem as though he was undermining Owen’s discomfort with the situation?

He was, admittedly, trying to appeal to the fiercely competitive athlete that he knows full well still blazes away inside Owen and even creeps out in particularly intense rehab sessions on occasion. He doesn’t have the answers, knows as well as Owen does that there is nothing that _can_ be done to put everything back to ‘normal’; he just wants to help his husband feel better about what they have to work with.

“Yeah,” Owen mutters quietly, more contemplative than anything else, which James takes as a good sign. “It’s new, but that doesn’t have to make it _bad_.”

He seems to be talking mostly to himself, so James settles for kissing the top of his head in lieu of any reply. For some time, a settled quiet falls between them, James happy to appreciate the warm, familiar man back in his arms, in _their_ bed, until a thought occurs.

“On the subject of change,” he ventures, and Owen cocks his head in silent expectation, “Thoughts on leather?”

“…Leather?” Owen repeats, apparently bemused.

James has to concede that the topic switch is fairly unexpected and, at the very least, the idea warrants some explanation.

“So I was talking to Scaz a while back –”

“You were talking to _Emily Scarratt_ about –”

“As a _joke_ ,” James clarifies hurriedly, before Owen can die of mortification. “We were talking about… What was it? Right, if we did a photoshoot to come out.”

“We are _not_ doing a photoshoot when we come out,” Owen announces firmly, which is mildly disappointing but very much expected. “Definitely not in _leather_ , either.”

“I know,” James assures him. “We were having a bit of a laugh, she said something about glitter or whatnot, and I was on the whole queer imagery line of thinking, you know?”

“And that got you to leather,” Owen fills in, sounding a little like he might be trying not to laugh. “Alright…”

James waits while his husband considers it. If Owen says no, he won’t press – both because boundaries are _boundaries_ , and because Owen doesn’t tend to rule anything out right off the bat without being certain – but he hopes that Owen agrees to give it a go. It feels like the sort of thing that might be nice to try at least once.

“I wouldn’t mind looking into it at some point,” Owen offers eventually, a perfect response as far as James is concerned; they’re hardly about to dive in without proper research, after all, “But not while I’m still going into rehab every day.”

“However long you need,” James agrees at once.

For Owen, he is more than happy to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think for me, this is a slightly more suggestive chapter in places, and not just because it takes a small step into exploring sexuality after SCI - which, like everything else, obviously varies hugely from person to person, particularly when it comes to incomplete SCIs. I'd really appreciate any opinions on that, but also on anything else about this!

**Author's Note:**

> I'd greatly appreciate any feedback - constructive criticism, praise, what you'd like to see explored or occur, etc. This is set to be pretty unstructured, for all that I have some idea of the first few chapters; most of them should be quite self-contained. I may not do many chapters at all, honestly - we'll see how it goes.


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